


dead hearts

by Corinth (syren_song)



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Character Undeath, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 05:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21386818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syren_song/pseuds/Corinth
Summary: Dick was the social performer and Tim was the perfect son, but Jason? Jason was dead.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 1
Kudos: 38





	dead hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Not quite sure where this is going, but I had this stuck in my brain like a thorn.

As silly as it seemed—and was it really that silly?—Bruce couldn’t help feeling like he’d killed Jason with his own hands. He found a boy not unlike himself at that age, raw and hurting, and he thought he was doing the right thing by taking him home and giving him a chance at a better life. He thought he was doing the right thing by giving Jason an outlet for his anger, his violence, his thwarted sense of justice, and for a while it seemed like he was right. Sure, it pushed Dick away for a while, but once he met Jason he’d understand, and Jason was such a bright kid. Dick was smart, sure, but he was more physical than academic. He preferred acrobatics and the police academy (and, briefly, modeling), but he had whined and moaned until Bruce took him first out of AP classes and then out of honors. Jason read every book he could get his hands on, at times reading the children’s books he had missed and at others reading literary and philosophical texts Bruce hadn’t touched until college. His teachers wrote notes along the lines of, _Bright student. Good listener. Has trouble making friends and sometimes reads in class instead of taking notes._ Bruce let it slide, because he was the same way at Jason’s age. He’d grow out of it.

Then came the Joker, a crowbar, a warehouse in Ethiopia, and a bomb.

Bruce didn’t believe in weighing his grief against itself, but he was less functional after Jason died than he had been after the death of his parents. He’d had Alfred, who always seemed to know what to do, and there were no adult responsibilities piling against his shoulders like so much grave dirt. He barely remembered the months after Jason’s death. He went out less, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. He took less care of himself. Dick moved back home for a bit, even though he’d still been mad at Bruce for something or another, and Alfred fretted in his own, quiet, British way. Meanwhile, Bruce himself was caught in a cycle of, _What if I’d been there—what if I’d gotten there in time—what if I’d **listened**_**—**_what if—what if—what if—_

And then Jason came back—like a miracle, like a prayer—except he came back wrong. His anger came out twisted and brutal, and he was determined to stab Bruce in every soft spot he had. Bruce wished for the Jason he could envision studying philosophy in college, quoting Foucault and Nietzsche and calling him a bourgeois capitalist. He wished for the version of Jason he could look at without seeing the street criminal who killed his parents.

After Jason died, Bruce had nightmares about Jason clawing his way out of the grave, half-rotted, his eyeballs dangling from empty sockets. In those dreams, Jason did not speak, but he rasped breaths in a quiet death rattle. After Red Hood appeared but before Bruce knew he was Jason, he dreamt that Jason shot his father and tore apart his mother’s pearl necklace. Ever since the reveal, however, Bruce has been having the same dream: Jason arrives to the door of the Manor, snow melting into rain on the shoulders of his leather jacket. His eyes are heavy and his hands are red. Bruce thinks that Jason says something, but he can never quite recall; the only thing Bruce hears is the quiet click as he closes the door.

It woke him in a cold sweat every time.

Jason Todd died more times than he was owed. He was born in the sweaty grip of a mother who didn’t know better, a mother who loved him (loved him, loved him) but was unprepared for motherhood. Before long, he was by himself on the streets. That life ended and another began with a tire iron and a split-second decision, and for a while, it was the best decision he ever made. He had a father who loved him (loved him, loved him), but it ended with a crowbar and a bad joke with him as the punchline.

The intervening time period was…hazy, for Jason. He would never be able to swear if it was a memory or just a recurring nightmare, but in his sleep, Jason could feel the rot of death, the putrefaction of his organs and the shrinking of his skin. Then, the reanimation of his tissues, the exquisite pain of his heart seizing and starting again, and finally, rising from the pit of madness.

(Truth be told, Jason wasn’t sure if he’d risen once or if he’d risen several times, baptized and re-baptized until he twisted into Talia’s grasp. He relearned what it was like to be held, but he forgot what it was like to be loved.)

Part of the violence of Jason’s return was due to Talia and the Pit, but an uglier part of Jason had to admit that some of it was his own. Bruce had picked him off the streets and told him he was good enough, and then he’d turned him around with a spoiled rich kid who had probably never had to fight like he meant it, never got in trouble for being too sharp or too blunt, never felt more knife than boy. Dick was the social performer and Tim was the perfect son, but Jason? Jason was dead.

**Author's Note:**

> More batfam to appear eventually. The plan is to show Jason trying to get better (TM), but still occasionally fucking up.


End file.
